


Susceptible to Summer

by apliddell



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Courtship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Romance, The Arrangement (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 18:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19067809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: One would think nearly everything would be an anticlimax after preventing the end of the world, but one would be wrong. There are always still good things to do.





	Susceptible to Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A_Candle_For_Sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Candle_For_Sherlock/gifts).



> Dearest Moony, isn't it a pleasure to love things together?

“So, Angel,” Crowley tipped the last drops of the champagne bottle into Aziraphale’s glass. “What now?”

 

“We might order another bottle,” Aziraphale answered rather distractedly. “And they do an exquisite little strawberry mousseline you might enjoy. Though I suppose pudding with lunch is rather gauche.” 

 

Crowley smiled into the dregs of his own champagne, “That isn’t what I meant.” 

 

“Oh,” Aziraphale finished his champagne. “Then perhaps a walk.” 

 

…

  
  


There was a pink rosebush growing near the front entrance of the Ritz that had some rather charming young buds beginning to flower on it. 

 

Crowley paused to admire it. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked it, and it seemed not to, because it dropped a plump, pink bud into his outstretched hand. 

 

Aziraphale had paused also to watch Crowley’s interview with the bush, and he gave a little _oh!_ of surprise when Crowley tucked the bud into the buttonhole of his coat, “Don’t you think it makes me look rather fussy?” 

 

Crowley laughed and offered his elbow, “It isn’t the flower that does that, Angel.” 

 

“Well!” said Aziraphale and accepted the elbow. 

 

They ambled quietly towards the park and Crowley tried to remember a book he might have read once that had a neat little passage about rambling in silence in the park with a man whom one knows intimately. Or perhaps it was a poem? Trickier to parse that sort of thing when you’ve got about five hundred years of books under your belt, and Crowley never did manage it. Aziraphale would almost certainly have known. Crowley decided to ask some time when the question wouldn’t be so obviously self-referential. 

 

“Such a very fine day,” Aziraphale remarked presently, shutting his eyes and tipping his head back to bask in a sunbeam, so that Crowley had to look away a moment. “I can’t remember it having been so fine in ages,” he straightened up and shaded his eyes with his free hand. 

 

“Well you do spend most of your time reading in the back of the bookshop,” Crowley whipped a spare pair of shades out of his breast pocket and offered them to Aziraphale. 

 

Aziraphale accepted the shades and put them on, then checked his reflection in Crowley’s shades, “It isn’t that; it’s been gloomy for such a long time, and now it’s beautiful. Do I look silly in these?”

 

Crowley considered, “I think I’d use the word camp.” 

 

“Well there’s no escaping that, now is there. Are you susceptible to summer?”

 

“I mainly wear them because people tend to find the whole snake eyes thing a bit off putting.”

 

“No, you silly old thing. I mean cordials and ice lollies and sunbathing, balmy nights, mini-breaks, quickened blood and that sort of thing. Summer. Do you find yourself er refreshed or. Stirred by its arrival?” 

 

Crowley cocked an eyebrow, “That’s an interesting question. Why do you ask? Are you planning us a picnic?”

 

Aziraphale turned up his lapel to sniff at the bud Crowley’d given him, “Not actively; I think I’ve just eaten my weight in lunch.” 

 

“So it’s an abstract picnic, then.”

 

“Mmm,” Aziraphale smoothed his jacket. “Let’s say it’s a synecdoche.” 

 

“We may as well,” Crowley agreed, because he hadn’t any idea of what Aziraphale was on about. 

 

Aziraphale took a seat on an oak-shaded park bench and handed Crowley back his shades when Crowley joined him.

 

Crowley tucked them away, “Really though. What are you going to do now? Well, what are  _ we  _ going to do now? And don’t pretend to think I want a second go at the mousseline.”

 

“I suppose we’ll be seeing much more of each other,” Aziraphale answered serenely. “Otherwise, I don’t imagine the day to day will change much.” 

 

Crowley paused briefly to enjoy the mingling internal sensations of pleased and confused, “Will we? Why wouldn’t it?”

 

“Because being what we are, where we are, how we are and not going potty over it means leaning rather heavily on routine, and we both enjoy our routines too much to toss them out completely, just because we could get away with it, if we wanted to.” Aziraphale stretched one leg out in front of him and waggled one of his perfectly shiny oxfords, “Bother, I’ve scuffed the toe.” He sighed, “I suppose I should wait and give it a proper polish at home. Miracle polish is so-” 

 

“And the other thing,” Crowley pressed.

 

Aziraphale gave him a slightly surprised look, “Did you want to shake off the apocalypse and go back to. Acquaintanceship?”

 

Crowley huffed, “Acquaintanceship. That’s a stupid way to describe it.” 

 

“Of course it is. My point exactly. Anyway, no one’s going to mind now, so we may as well do what we like.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Aziraphale crossed his ankles and tucked them back under the bench, “I can’t believe that hadn’t occurred to you.”

 

“Well, of course it had, but I was assuming it hadn’t occurred to  _ you,  _ Angel.” 

 

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale in a tone that implied he was not exactly flattered. 

 

Crowley inspected his own shoes for scuffs while he thought about what to say next, “Want to come back to mine?”

 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale looked scandalised. 

 

“You’ve  _ just  _ said-”

 

“Just because I know what I want doesn’t mean I want to have it willy nilly avalanching down on me all at once,” Aziraphale said primly. 

 

Crowley felt rather complimented by the avalanching bit, but he tried not to let on, “Are you asking me to court you, Angel?”

 

Aziraphale actually blushed, and Crowley made a solemn vow with himself that he would see that expression again. 

 

“Six thousand years of pussyfooting not enough foreplay for you, Aziraphale?”

 

Aziraphale’s blush deepened til he was the colour of that mousseline he liked so much, “Things are  _ different _ now. We're free now, and we should do things as we mean to and not only as we can.” 

 

Crowley quite liked the mousseline as well, “True!” he agreed cheerfully. “Well then. Want to go with me to the cinema tomorrow night?”

 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale a little stiffly and still rather pink. 

 

Crowley’s stomach jumped, and he let out a wild sort of giggle, “Excellent! And who knows! In another millennia or so, we might have our first kiss.” 

 

Aziraphale giggled also, “Oh, that you can have now, if you like.”

 

As it happened, that was exactly what Crowley liked. He pushed his shades up onto his head and leaned in close, til they were nose to nose. He could feel Aziraphale’s breath on his face and smell the rosebud in his jacket. He lingered with the tip of his nose just brushing Aziraphale’s. It seemed like a moment to savour. But Aziraphale raised his chin and kissed Crowley. And Crowley shut his eyes and tumbled headlong toward the freedom he’d always craved, sweet and warm as summer sunshine. 


End file.
